Death of a Sharp Nobody
by pigeons
Summary: [Hunger Games AU.] As soon as the cannon went off, twenty four people went blind.
1. DAY 1

Hunger games AU! **If you're triggered by death, blood/gore, swearing, I'd recommend you turn back!** For convenience's sake, I've made it so the tributes are all guys. I didn't really wanna fuck around with minor characters or gender-bends, and I didn't think it would be a good "quarter quell" twist, so just :/ bare with me.

**A list of tributes and districts are at the bottom of this page.** You can reference it there if you're at all confused. Thanks so much for reading! _**PLEASE REVIEW!**_

* * *

As soon as the canon went off, twenty four people went blind.

The air was pungent with panic and blood, suddenly, and the past few weeks didn't seem so superficial anymore. A few of them had slacked on their training; those were the first to die.

Lovino Vargas was first. The counting down was making sweat bead on his forehead, the stress making his heart hammer painfully in his chest. He leaped off the podium, with the full intent of finding his brother and getting the hell out of there. Feliciano had to be directly across from him—it was the only place they'd put a tribute from the same district.

The cornucopia battle was the worst of it, so they said. More people would die the first day than any other. He didn't want to be one of them—he'd be so prideful if he could only make it one more day than they'd predicted he would. His efforts in training had only earned him a seven; one of the lower scores. He'd seen the career's faces and the way Bonnefoy had smirked, oh god and he wanted to kill them.

He couldn't see anything; only sprinting forward, surging for the golden mass that was the cornucopia.

A breath was caught in his throat, a stone caught underfoot. He fell, face hitting the grass under him and he flipped himself over as quickly as he could. His hands scraped against the hard ground and he grunted with the effort of getting up. It wasn't fast enough. He was too close to the cornucopia; the other, stronger tributes had already reached it.

A career was standing over him. He had shining eyes, but scared ones, and he brandished a spear. Dark brown hair was blowing in his face, the sun blotted out behind him. Lovino still couldn't see, disoriented and scared and his heart; oh his heart wouldn't be still.

Lovino heaved himself upwards—trying to get a stance, trying to prepare himself to defend—but he didn't even get that far. The career, Roderich, he lunged sending the spear into Lovino's ribs. It struck straight and true; not betraying anything, not making him suffer. It thrust him backwards, into the ground. It was a hard hit, too; He felt his bones shift, and he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

Roderich grunted, pulling the spear back with violent movements, primal instincts. He'd probably trained for that for weeks. The edges of the point caught his ribs again on the way out; he was jerked forward. It had gone in deep; probably messed up every organ in his body, for god's sakes that's how it felt.

Roderich lunged again, hitting Lovino in the head with the spear. Spots hazed his already tunneled vision, the disorientation was far too much. Roderich stuck him again, this time in the shoulder. He'd narrowly missed the heart; that'd been evidently where he was going for. The spear was embedded so deeply in his shoulder now; Roderich didn't try to pull it out, only straightened his spine to stand taller and watch his first kill die.

There was a movement behind Roderich—a grey blur, and he was being shoved over. Lovino was on the ground already, and the career went down beside him. He couldn't do anything but gawk, mouth wide open with pain and shock; the person who'd shoved Roderich came into focus for only a second.

It was the boy from district ten. The one who'd been so kind to him in training, because of his upbringing in eleven; it was Antonio. He'd sat with Antonio in the dining hall, he'd trained with him, he'd gripped his hand tightly on the stage with the crowd staring them down, he'd cried to him once, or twice—to think there, they could have had something.

Roderich was screaming now. Lovino hadn't ever heard something so horrifying. It didn't take long for it to stop; from what Lovino could tell, Antonio had stomped on Roderich's head. Again and again, Antonio kicked and stomped on his skull—it had to be shattered into an irreparable state by now. The squelching sound of blood spraying from it was unmistakable. Blood was everywhere. It was his, it was Roderich's, it was a river that drowned him and the entire world. Antonio had snapped his neck now, the sound making Lovino's stomach twist and his screams increase. The canon went off; Roderich was dead.

Antonio came back into view; their eyes met for only a moment, and Lovino tried to say, please help me, please, I'll do anything, please. He tried to reach out, but could only clutch his side where the spear had been messily torn out. The fingers of his other hand curled into the long grass, feeling dry earth and sun beating down on him, his heart still trying to work harder, slowing down. It was far too slow. Antonio was gone.

Lovino couldn't scream anymore. He couldn't see, not even grey shapes like he had before. He thought of Feliciano. He prayed to god, he'd be okay. Someone will protect him, please. Please.

He didn't hear the canon go off, marking Lovino's death.

Across the field, a dark haired boy had leapt off the podium a second late. He was fast, albeit small, and his dark ponytail hit his back when he ran. His lean muscles rippled with strain while he sprinted to the cornucopia; he was no coward. He would not run from a battle.

Yao was his name. He'd earned a higher score in the training exercises, despite being one of the smaller tributes. He was eighteen; the oldest of any as well. Cunning and quick, he had a chance perhaps. He was determined to go back to his family, who needed him for monetary reasons as well as emotional ones; the same as any tribute.

As he reached the cornucopia, one of the first, he snatched a sleek black bow; it was small, the length of his arm, perhaps, and a quiver came with it. He almost spilled the arrows trying to pick it up, and that spare second allowed someone to reach him.

It was the other boy from his own district. A muscular and dark haired person; Sadik. And intimidating foe, he had a broader build than anyone but the district twelve tribute that everyone was so scared of. Yao was startled, but his trust betrayed him. He let himself go lax for a moment, thinking that since they'd been through so much together, from the same homeland, district eight, Sadik would befriend him.

He should have never come to the cornucopia. Sadik's sword came into vision far too late; Yao tensed with shock. "_Sadik_!" He screamed, voice inflecting the shattering terror that ripped through him. "_Don't, Sadi—"_

The sword hit the side of his face. The little black bow clattered to the ground as Yao's body crumpled.

Sadik couldn't help but stare for a moment at the damage he'd done; one whole side of Yao's face was crushed in. He'd swung with all his might, hitting Yao's cheekbone, shattering it, crushing in his head. Blood poured from the wound. Yao's final scream echoed in his head for the nanosecond that he stood there; he brought the sword down again on the body. The canon hadn't gone off; he might as well finish it.

It only took one swing after that, crushing in Yao's chest, before the Canon went off. The first three tributes were down. Sadik scooped up the most promising bag and headed at a full sprint for the woods, sword glistening with blood while it swung by his side.

When the tribute from district three had jumped from his podium, he'd been violently shaking. Eduard was his name; he had never been good at these sorts of things. He didn't even try for the cornucopia, but once he'd jumped from the metal onto the loosely packed soil, he couldn't help but stare at the golden object with longing for the supplies promised there. He knew it was a deathtrap, though. Only the strongest would make it out.

Eduard had only received a four after his training. He was easy pickings. Destined to die here, he nearly accepted his fate. His only hope was to be quicker, to use his wit. The wit everyone back in the electronics district had told him he possessed. He knew he wouldn't be the quickest. Yao was faster, he'd already seen, and that didn't help him when Sadik smashed his skull.

He'd watched Yao's death, seen Antonio kick at something undiscernible behind the grass. It was good that he didn't know it was Roderich.

He gathered the willpower to turn and run.

The wrong moment, perhaps, as he was now looking at the back of the tribute who'd jumped off the pedestal beside his; a tall and intimidating tribute from two. He'd probably gone a bit towards the cornucopia to grab a pack—a duffle bag hung from his shoulder—but now he was headed the other way and Eduard was so close to him. From district two. A career. Eduard screamed aloud, and then slapped his hands over his mouth.

The career whipped around, wide blue eyes suddenly narrowing. He started coming towards Eduard, and he could see someone behind the career, cowering. It was a boy from seven. "_Berwald!_" Said the kid, but Berwald kept coming. Eduard was backed into the pedestal he'd jumped from, and he screamed.

He shouldn't have let Berwald corner him. He could have just went around it, but he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere in this game anyways. Berwald's fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed, Eduard gripping at his arms, still trying to push him away.

Berwald's fingers were like cement. They were like a tightening coil, like a Chinese finger trap—the more you tried to escape, the harder it would get. Eduard couldn't even make any noise, only scrape at the other's jacket with his long fingernails. He punctured it, digging in as hard as he could. The sounds around them had gone mute—Eduard could see the boy from seven screaming, but he didn't hear it. He only felt the pain of the hands closed around his neck and the metal pedestal behind him. Berwald closed his fingers tighter, finally rupturing something.

The pressure crushed Eduard's windpipe. His eyes rolled back, his fingers went lax, but he was still conscious. Berwald dropped him, and he made these painful, screaming scratching sounds. It was worse than anything he'd ever felt before. _How long can you hold your breath?_ He asked himself.

Berwald was gone, running again, only giving Eduard a glimpse of a shorter blonde boy gaping back at him as he was huddled along. Eduard wished he could have only gone with them. They fled into the woods, and Eduard watched them go. Shaking, shuddering, trying to scream.

After a minute or so of clutching at his throat, dying on the grass, the canon went off.

After Antonio had left Lovino in the grass it was a constant reminder to him that _Lovino was already dead. He was dead, the canon went off. You saw his blood._ But no matter what he tried to reason, he couldn't deny that a dead person's eyes didn't widen like his had, and they didn't plead for help like he'd seen them do. He told himself he was never to go back there—he had to move forward. Always keep yourself the first priority.

Antonio raced the short distance up to the cornucopia. He saw swords, knives, bags of supplies, his eyes grazed over them until—there it is; an axe, glinting sunlight. He snatched it, and it was heavier than he thought it would be.

He saw someone coming in to his right, so he blindly swung at them. His axe struck something metal—a sword, held by someone enormous. The tribute from twelve; the one everyone had been so scared of. And Antonio had just given him a reason to have fury in his mind. The tribute, Ivan, swung at him with the sword, and Antonio ducked. He arced his axe down, hitting Ivan in the leg with blunt blow. The taller stumbled; but regained his balance before Antonio could bring the axe back up for another hit.

Ivan's sword was much quicker, even though it was pretty heavy itself. It must've been something to do with his strength. It struck Antonio in the side, sending him reeling. Antonio rebutted with a thrust of the axe; Ivan cried out when Antonio sliced his leg, the grey clothes doing nothing to prevent it from spilling blood from the wound.

Ivan only seemed to get angrier, hitting the sword into Antonio's weak attempts to block it with his axe.

Over his shoulder, Antonio could see the other big threat; Alfred, from district six. Trained with nearly every weapon the capitol had offered, skilled in combat and nearly as muscled as Ivan himself. He was fighting one boy from five; likely the physically stronger of the two. Shaggy brown curls blew into his face as he swung a sickle at Alfred, who brandished a knife.

Antonio was torn back into the moment as Ivan snarled and hit harder, this time violently knocking the axe from Antonio's hands. He'd proven a good match, but Ivan truly was the strongest tribute. Ivan swung once—it hit Antonio's throat.

Bone and cartilage and muscles were exposed—blood sprayed from the wound. Antonio had gone down so quickly after that. Ivan held the sword with both hands and brought it down once more, further severing Antonio's neck. It was too gruesome when the spinal cord was severed—Ivan already knew he had won when Antonio hit the ground. The canon had sounded for the fifth bang now, and more blood came from Antonio than anyone else that day, pooling on the ground from the messy, shredded, gaping cavity in his neck.

Alfred was still fighting the boy from five, Heracles, and he wasn't doing as well as his pride told him he would. The games were just that to him; a game, while everyone else was treating it like ragnarok. He would do the best he could.

Heracles raised the sickle above his head, plunging it into Alfred's shoulder. He didn't scream—he could deal with this. His eyes watered, but he ripped Heracles' arm off of it, letting it fall to the ground (rather painfully sliding out of the wound in his shoulder). He grabbed the taller's wrist, twisting it around so he could hold his knife to his throat.

He didn't waste time killing Heracles. The wheezing sigh he made while he died would haunt Alfred forever, probably. His body slumped to the ground just as the canon went off a sixth time.

The clearing was empty now. Ivan had fled, and anyone who was brave enough to have stayed was either dead around Alfred, as Heracles was, or had collected supplies and ran in every subsequent direction. He'd seen the other from twelve, a blonde with a smudged face and thick brows, and Bonnefoy, with his blonde hair tied up, take things from the pile, but neither of them had gotten caught up in anything; they'd reached the trees without incident, at least.

Alfred was clutching his shoulder, feeling the damage where there was a hole in his flesh, bleeding freely down his back. He wouldn't die from this, no, but it needed to be treated. Maybe fortune would shine on him and his sponsors would send something—but he couldn't treat it by himself.

He kept scanning the tree line as he looked for suitable supplies. He was worried that perhaps the tribute from eight would come back; Sadik. Or perhaps even the one from his district. Ludwig was always a threat, since they weren't exactly friends. Another concern of his was that Bonnefoy would form some kind of posse. He'd rally up the remaining careers—he was from one, so he could employ the masons from two, Berwald and Matthias, probably. Alfred had spied the body of the last career, Roderich, earlier. He was glad that wasn't a problem.

A rustle among the boxes and supplies around him made him jump; he immediately brought up his arm, holding the knife out. "Who's there!" He demanded. Nothing happened immediately, but he moved closer, holding his knife in a tense arm, ready to throw it if someone jumped out from behind the boxes and packs. They rustled again, and he growled. "Come out from there!"

A blonde head full of curls lifted from behind one. The boy stood. He couldn't be older than fourteen, and he shook so hard. His hands were raised in a surrendering pose; Alfred lowered the knife a little.

"Please, please don't kill me! Don't kill me! I d-don't want to hurt anybody. Please!" The boy was crying. Was he really that weak? He had bright eyes, but they were full of tears. "I—I see you're injured. I can h-help you! I'll bandage it. P-please don't kill me." He'd probably seen the engagement with Heracles, that's why he was so afraid. That's why he was crying.

"I won't kill you." Alfred said, not really sure why. He had an urge to protect this kid, since he looked so young, and he looked so scared, and Alfred really needed to be bandaged anyways, so he could help in that way… "What's your name? And your district, too." Alfred's tone was still authoritarian.

"Raivis! R-Raivis Galante. From district ten!" Livestock, huh. Alfred guessed he didn't really need to be big or strong to handle livestock.

Al gave him a long look, before another wave of pain hit his shoulder. "…could you treat this?" He questioned. "There's supplies. Do it now." It wasn't really a question, in the end. He could still easily kill this Raivis Galante, even while he was injured.

"Okay. A-ah, okay." The boy scrambled for some medical supplies, tearing open duffle bags while Alfred slumped against the very box Raivis had been hiding behind.

A few minutes later, while Al had been trying to slow his breathing, get rid of his adrenaline high from fighting earlier, Raivis approached him. He seemed wary about touching Alfred, but it proved necessary when he had to lean the taller boy forward in order to unzip his jacket and slip the shoulder down.

The back of his shoulder had been torn into dreadfully by Heracles' sickle—the damage was terrifying, and Raivis reviewed the supplies he'd collected. A few rags, some clear liquid labelled as peroxide, and a long roll of bandage. There was nothing to cut it with other than Alfred's knife, he guessed.

Alfred gritted his teeth as Raivis tried to blot some of the blood away—it was still coming out, not having enough time to clot. Raivis just did the best he could to stop the bleeding, and then poured some of the peroxide onto it without warning.

Alfred cried out, hissing at the stinging sensation—it fizzed and bubbled and felt like _burning_, but he knew it would help keep infections away. It didn't stop him from cursing up a storm while Raivis kept whispering, "Sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be mad. I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing, dammit. You're helping me." Raivis looked up at him like he was finally realizing they were both human.

After they'd used about a third of the bottle, Raivis wrapped up Alfred's shoulder. Al was keeping an eye on the tree line, still, but no one came out of the darkness. He saw a little bit of movement, making him tense, but nothing major. Alfred felt better once his shoulder was operating again. It was stiff, and a dull, resonating pain was still there, but he could move it around without blood going everywhere. That'd worked out fairly well considering the circumstances.

"We shouldn't stay here. It's too dangerous to be around this much stuff for too long. People are gonna come back here and I can't fight them all off for us."

"So… we're an… a-alliance?" Raivis stuttered.

"Yeah. An alliance." Alfred nodded, looking into Raivis' eyes hopefully. "I'll make sure you'll be okay, if you'll help me survive out here. The only thing I'm handy with is a sword and an engine." That's right, thought Raivis. Transportation was Alfred's district's specialty.

"I'm decent with wilderness survival. Can you carry another pack? I'm not sure what's in them, and I w-wanna leave this place before someone comes back." Raivis was rummaging for a good-looking duffle bag. He handed it to Alfred, who held two, and Raivis had a backpack on. He took a set of knives for the sake of having them; he wasn't strong enough to carry a sword or anything, but he might as well have a weapon.

Alfred took them at a very quick pace into the tree line. Raivis hoped it wouldn't be the last time he was seeing the cornucopia; he snuck one last glance at the golden object as they were retreating into the woods.

It was then that Raivis really got a look at the arena; the blindness of panic didn't have him running or hiding anymore, and he could fully absorb his surroundings. He looked up to see the largest mountain he'd ever seen in his life. It stretched up almost to the clouds—snow topped, craggy, cliff covered. Just one mountain; in every other direction, there were woods and fields. He assumed you'd run out of ground if you tried to stray too far from the mountain; that's where the gamekeepers wanted you.

They were going up the base of the mountain now, in fact. The ground sloped, the trees rooting into the uphill paths between. It was hard to run, so they settled for sneaking after a while. Raivis was glad; he wasn't sure how long he could have kept up running.

They travelled like that for perhaps an hour; walking uphill without talking. The exception was when Raivis would ask Alfred about his shoulder; each time the mechanic would deny he was in pain, even when it was clear he was. The idiot was trying to be noble.

Suddenly Alfred stopped in his tracks. Raivis almost bumped into him. "Did you hear that?" He whispered.

Raivis was suddenly full of fear again. "N-no. What is it? Something bad!?"

Alfred turned his head. "I think I hear someone yelling. In that direction…" He pointed down the mountain to the right side of them.

"Should we… go down there?" Raivis hoped Alfred would say no.

It never would have ended up that way, it seems. "Yeah. We should be able to find someone. I want to make these games quicker." A chill ran down Raivis' spine when he said that. Did he really think that little of someone's life so as to play the capitol's game? Apparently so, but there wasn't even an option to run from Alfred now. He'd catch him, and there was no clear advantage to keeping him alive.

Alfred set off in that direction, careful not to trample through the leaves as loudly as it could have been. He was still pretty loud, although, Raivis was starting to hear that he was right. It was the sound of a fight. Rustling and grunting, screams of anger and cries of pain. Raivis recognized only one of the voices, identifying it as Toris, the boy from nine that had befriended him. He suddenly was glad that Alfred decided to come this way. They could help him out of this fight; they could string him along, and they could start a group alliance.

The duo approached the sounds, evidently taking place in a clearing below them. A low cliff and some bushes separated them from the fight below; and Raivis didn't want them to go away.

Ivan, the giant from twelve, was swinging a blood-covered sword at Toris, who was dodging each swing with tactful and premeditated moves. He was breathing hard, trying not to show his exertion, evidently only trying to think of a way out.

Ivan's sword hit the dirt and leaves on the ground with clamorous noise. Toris knew he couldn't run uphill, and Ivan would cut him off if he tried to go downhill. The craggy surface of the cliff faced him to the right, and to the left the underbrush was thick—but it was the best chance he had. Toris made a break for it. He sprinted on legs that felt like gelatin.

Ivan wasn't having any of that. He wouldn't let Toris escape; He ran after him at full speed, tackling him to the ground, listening to his panicked cry for help.

Raivis looked over to Alfred. Wasn't he going to help? Even if he was injured, wouldn't he do something?

"Alfred!" He half-whispered. The taller turned his head only briefly, enraptured by the fight at hand. His eyes glowed with interest.

"What." Alfred didn't inflect any emotion in his voice. It struck Raivis; Alfred was really a lot different from him. Someone he'd just met, someone he didn't know anything about, he could just be a killing machine. Alfred… already had a kill, didn't he.

Alfred didn't care what happened to Toris because he couldn't do anything to help him. Saving him would be trouble for Alfred; Ivan was a strong and intimidating opponent, and there would be no positive outcome other than _karma_. Who needed karma, in hell like this? "A-aren't you doing to do something?"

Alfred's eyes were cold, but no colder than they'd been before. The tautness of his gaze was something Raivis was only noticing now. He quickly glanced back over to the fight; Toris was flailing, screaming, trying to get Ivan off of him, but they both knew it was futile. "If he's dead, our chances only improve." That's what he said, but Raivis only heard '_my chances only improve'_. He didn't react.

Ivan was shaking. They couldn't tell what it was at first, but soon he started to shudder and his shoulders quaked. Toris' face was hidden from view, but his legs were braced, trying to push up and knock Ivan off-balance.

Ivan was laughing.

Alfred grabbed Raivis' arm. "We should go. Quickly." He pulled him away, and Raivis' eyes lingered on what he could see of Toris' body. Ivan was poised, the sword ready to swing down—

Alfred yanked him away before he could watch, but he heard the canon. That was enough.

* * *

As the two of them fled from the scene, Ivan was staring down at what he'd done. Toris' head was open, flowers of red bleeding, flowing onto the leaves and the dirt. Someone's head should never bleed so much. One eye socket was completely smashed in, the other eye closed. It looked relaxed, since the muscles could no longer tense.

He'd made his second kill. In one day, he'd ended two lives. He wondered if this made him the top competitor. He hadn't wanted to do this. He couldn't stop shaking. The noise he heard—he was uttering some sort of nervous laughter, chopped short and manically, horribly uneven.

He put dropped the sword which felt cemented in his hands. Adrenaline was keeping them tense and shaking still. Clutching his chest, a bit of blood smearing, he got off of Toris' body. He wanted to leave the sword there; but it was too important. Someone could attack at any point in time, and the back of his mind wouldn't let him leave it, smeared with Toris' blood or not.

He had never wanted to kill anybody. He just had to get back to district twelve. The poor coal mining district needed him—this generation of miners was meager and small, and he was a six-foot standing man (or, nearly a man. Still just a boy). His family would make better wages, he could bring home food and he could provide protection. His sisters needed a better life.

His tall stature also made him a target—the careers, particularly from one, were plotting to take him down. They knew what an important thing his alliance could be, so he made a mental note to _not_ ally with any careers. It could end badly. They'd use him until Alfred and Ludwig and Sadik were dead, and then dispose of him.

This didn't feel like he was giving them one. He wished he could take it back. Pull the warmth back into Toris' bloodstream; piece his smashed-in face back together. The body lay on the ground a short distance away, and Ivan couldn't look at it.

He stumbled away, feeling sorry for himself.

He didn't really know where he was going. He thought he'd just head around the mountain—the arena was centered on it. Where they'd all started was to the side of the mountain in some direction, and the available area was presumably just the surroundings of the landform. Everyone in their right, competitive mind would be headed to the peak. He knew that's what they'd all do. Better to stay on low ground, where fewer tributes will remain.

The environment was a forest. Mostly coniferous trees, tall and lean, pine needles crunching under his feet. Somewhere, he could hear a few birds, but the noise wasn't overwhelming. It was a near silent forest.

Somewhere in the woods he felt hairs prickling on the back of his neck. The blood drops on his jacket's breast were like a marker—this person is dangerous, they're scared and unpredictable. The red on their jacket will dry and crack off, but the thick hands will never stop being so dangerous.

Ivan started to whip his head side to side—trying to catch someone walking behind him. There had to be someone. This feeling of unease didn't come on its own. Or maybe it did for a boy who'd just committed a murder.

Ivan stopped completely. There was a rustle—only a whisper, but it proved it to him.

"Come out!" He yelled. "Stop being a coward!" His voice cracked. He was panting—he didn't realize how worked up he was still. He saw an image of the lifeless body on the ground, the smashed eye socket. He spun, looking all around him, catching a glimpse—

A blonde head, peering from behind a tree. They'd been tailing him for a while. They met his eyes—guarded heavily, they looked just as scared as he felt. The person held their hands up in a surrendering motion, before stepping out from behind the tree.

It was a pale boy from district seven. Lumber district. He had toned arms and a lean frame. His hair was long but not pulled back, an odd choice by his stylist. Most of the time hair was cut short for utility purposes, but this style made him look very notable.

He still held his hands up in surrender. "P-please don't kill me." He whispered, but Ivan heard him. "I j-just want to go with you. Say no, and we'll both walk away. Please, I'm so scared out here."

Night was going to fall soon, anyways, and Ivan didn't want to be alone any longer. He didn't want to hurt anybody in the first place, but Toris' dead fucking face kept appearing, overlapping with the long-haired boy's face.

If someone attacked, he would kill again. That was how these games went. That was what he said he would do. Being as large as he was, he wouldn't be put down easily. He could endure what any other human could—he could almost do whatever he wanted, here. But he knew the careers would be dangerous, he knew the strong tributes from outlying districts would be challenging. It was unusual for a strong person to come from district 12. They needed him back there. He wanted to live in the victors' village with the old woman and his mother's cat.

Ivan stuttered. "W-walk with me. I don't want to fight… I don't…"

He felt dizzy, so he sat on the ground. A tree close to his side had a root sticking out under him, the shape of the earth providing a resting spot that invited the other over to him. He seemed very cautious about it, staying a good ten feet from him, but it was still closer than before.

"Are you alright?" asked the boy. Ivan clutched his head, but looked up at him.

"What is your name?" Ivan inquired, seemingly randomly.

He spoke in a smooth and calming voice, very, very quietly. "My name is Matthew. I'm from seven. Y-you're Ivan, aren't you?"

He was somewhat of a celebrity amongst tributes, he guessed. His stature made him such an intimidating foe that Matthew was probably scared of him so very much. He just didn't want to hurt anybody anymore. He didn't want to have killed Toris, he didn't want to harm a hair on Matthew's head. He wished he could remember how he killed Antonio (had he killed Antonio for real, in the sprawl of battle and adrenaline he could really have missed, he could have just imagined the canon).

Ivan nodded. "From twelve."

"Are you okay, Ivan?" Matthew was looking down at him, speaking in the softest voice. Ivan was painfully aware of the cameras capturing this moment. He curled up tighter, moving against the tree. He shrugged his shoulders.

Matthew backed away, and for a moment Ivan was afraid he was leaving. But Matthew simply leaned against another tree, across from Ivan perhaps fifteen feet or so. He removed a black backpack from his back, setting it on the ground next to him. Ivan had only his sword.

"What is in that bag?" He asked, voice quavering embarrassingly. Matthew didn't react to that, though.

"Food. Just food, really. Bread and oatmeal and stuff. There's a flask too, but I'm not sure what's in it."

Ivan didn't ask the question that was hanging in the air—were they going to be allies? Would Matthew share this food in return for protection? Matthew had seemed like quite the pacifist during training, and during the cornucopia battle, it was like he wasn't there at all. Stealth seemed to be his strong suit.

Matthew inched closer to him, dragging the backpack. Only ten feet separated them, then five. The boy was reluctant to come any closer to him, since Ivan was the only one with a weapon anyways. "C-come on. You should take some. We can be f-friends."

Oh. Yes, he'd like that very much. Ivan did his best to smile, the look on Matthew's pallid face lightening a bit.

He started to unzip the backpack, and Matthew became more relaxed. They ate in the woods together, keeping an eye out for anyone who might stumble through the coniferous forest. The blood on the sword had dried.

* * *

Only a short ways up the mountain, one of the remaining careers was headed the wrong way.

He was walking away from where Ivan and Matthew were calmly sitting—his name was Francis Bonnefoy, and he was on a mission.

He was a career, yes, so he was almost entirely certain he or one of the brutes from district two would win these games. At age seventeen, he'd volunteered a year early. He'd forgone his neighbors and cousins, who'd all turned eighteen this year. He wanted to bring honor and respect to his district. It was so very important that he win these games.

He honestly hadn't been prepared for the forest. Coastline, yes, desert yes, swamps and hostile tundra yes. But something so tame hadn't been on his list of options. The mountain was an interesting dynamic in respect to the 'high ground' rule—one with the higher ground always wins, right? So whoever gets to the top of the mountain must have some advantage. Maybe there would be something up there for whoever gets to it. You never know what the game makers are going to do.

His mission was to take out the biggest tributes. Top of his list—Ivan Braginski. The six foot tall seventeen year old from district twelve.

He just didn't know how to find him. In reality, if he'd just known to turn around, he would have found him. It probably would have been an unwise choice, however, as Ivan was tense and threatened, if not bloodthirsty. Francis would have been easily overpowered by him. Perhaps he would have killed Matthew; but Ivan would avenge him, as he would not forgo a chase.

Francis was becoming analytic of his surroundings; the trees were numbered, the paths were memorized. If he had to come this way again, he knew what to look for to get his bearings. Large outcroppings of rock jutted out occasionally, and particularly warped or damaged trees would be easy landmarks.

Francis eventually came upon a stream—a fortunate thing, though he didn't have a flask or bottle. So he decided to drink what he wanted then, and follow the stream. Streams began at the high ground, didn't they? That was where he was going, in an effort to find Braginski. He followed it uphill for a while before drinking—watching the color, the clarity and smelling it first. He wanted to make sure it was pure enough. He didn't want to be the only one poisoned in these games.

Drinking from the stream was refreshing. It cleared his mind, made him sharper than ever. His wit, his knives, his thoughts were all sharp. Everything about him was.

He followed the stream up, thinking about home, thinking about the best way to fight someone taller than he. He stepped over rocks and vines. He watched the path ahead of him intently. Everyone was very close together right now, unless they'd all sprinted in different directions, and even then, the game makers wanted something to happen. They wouldn't let them all stay apart forever.

Soon after that, he heard something—a splash in the water, a crinkle of leaves. He spied someone. They were crouched by the stream on their knees, their hands cupped to bring water to their lips. They were shaking. Spiked, blond hair and the same grey uniform, their head snapped up. Green eyes met his immediately, as he hadn't been stealthy as he approached them.

So, it was the other from twelve. Arthur Kirkland. He palmed his knife.

Suddenly Arthur was already up and running away, on the other side of the stream. Water splashed as he tore his hands from the surface. He carried only a small pack, probably something he'd snagged as he ran into the woods. Francis tore after him.

Catching him could end up in two ways; one, he kills him. It would be an easy kill, earning respect from sponsors and perhaps saving his own life later. He could do it. Two, he coerces him into an alliance. He had to know what Braginski would do—where to find him. He could use Kirkland to get his location.

It didn't take him long to catch up to Arthur with his longer strides. Leaping over the stream, he thundered with the longest steps he could manage. Branches crunched under his painfully flexible shoes—it hurt his callouses. He reached out to grab the other blonde—he grasped at the collar of his shirt, but narrowly missed it. A second grab yanked Arthur's shoulder back, slowing him enough for Francis to slam him to the ground. They both fell with a thud and a cry, louder on Arthur's part.

He had the wind knocked out of him, and soon Francis was sitting on his chest with a knife pressed to his chin. Arthur's voice quavered as he screamed, "Get off of me, you bloody bastard! I'll kill you!" Francis' breaths labored as Arthur yelled at him. Even after he had his bearings these profanities kept up—he seemed more and more desperate as the smaller blond yelled them out.

Francis arched an eyebrow. "I don't think you're in any position to say these things, Kirkland. This knife is really, really sharp."

"_Shut up!_ Shut up, I know it's sharp! It's a knife, you fucker!" Arthur struggled beneath him, wriggling his torso to try and knock Francis off of him.

The career only pressed the knife into Arthur's chin, drawing blood and making the other scream. Francis only dug it in deeper as this happened—but he probably shouldn't be so loud. However, the cut was getting too deep and poured blood down his face and neck.

"Stop screaming so much! Stop it. I'll let you get up if you stop screaming." Francis was really annoyed with this guy, but it was the only way he'd find Ivan. Arthur heard this, and he breathed hard as he tried to stop making noise. Eventually the screams trailed off into groaning and later panting. That was better. Francis yanked the knife away roughly, his chin still pouring blood.

The career got off of Arthur slowly, letting him reach up to wipe at the beads of blood rolling down his chin. Facial wounds always bleed a lot, but the cherry red liquid was everywhere on him. He'd need to wash it in the stream. Francis didn't stand up, but crouched a few feet away. Arthur sat up, now, bracing himself with an arm and revealing rugged rocks and vines Francis had tackled him onto.

"You're kidding me? You're the worst m-murderer ever." He stuttered a bit.

"Shut up, or I really will murder you! You don't even have a weapon!" Arthur didn't seem to have a retort to this, but he looked mildly annoyed amongst his shock at Francis' sparing of him. The two didn't meet eyes.

Arthur now covered his chin with his hand, blood welling up behind it and messily pooling on his knuckles. "Really, why not murder me, bastard? You're not seriously letting me go, are you?" His tone was cynical.

Francis growled. "I don't want the blood on my hands now, alright? You seem to have enough on yours," He paused to chuckle. "Sorry about all that. It's my instinct, right?"

"W-w—Instinct?" Arthur exclaimed. "What the hell do you mean? Whose instinct is to _tackle someone to the ground_, frog?"

"I'm a career, jackass. District one, Francis Bonnefoy!" He said his name with a flourish and a smile that he used when winning over sponsors. He knew the cameras were watching.

Arthur apparently hadn't known. "C-career!? Is that why you're so—so quick to pull a knife?" The boy from district twelve was more than a bit shocked. He hadn't known in the slightest. Why was it always the tributes from twelve that were uninformed? Francis internally shook his head. Shooting his idea and then subsequently trying to work with this fool would be challenging in and of itself.

"Yes, yes, whatever. You're from twelve, aren't you? Of course. I need you to help me with something…" He hadn't finished his sentence before Arthur was up and walking back the way they came. Blood dripped onto the ground where he went. Francis knew he was just going to the stream, and he could see him the whole time, so instead of following immediately he kicked some leaves over the blood droplets. Seeing that would get some other tributes very excited.

After he'd covered the trail, he met Arthur at the stream. Not caring if he spooked him or not, he sat down right next to him. Arthur flinched, but kept pulling up water to his chin. Francis wondered if someone would see the blood washing down the stream, then figured it wouldn't matter. By the time it got down that far, it'd be a half mile away and they wouldn't know that.

Arthur didn't have a bandage, and neither did he, so they were forced to leave the wound open. It didn't stop bleeding for another ten or fifteen minutes, and Francis worried more about the blood.

"I need your help, Kirkland. I want to find Braginski." He was forward and straight to the point.

Arthur looked stunned. "Y-you…? Why?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "He's the largest tribute; the biggest threat, dumbass."

"And why would you need me to help you find him? You seem capable enough to track me down… A-and I'm not a threat. Sorry for not being enough of a fucking competition for you," Arthur was missing the point, spitting out more insults that Francis resented him for.

"You idiot, he's from your district. You've got to at least know his tendencies, or have just talked to him before." Snapped the career.

Arthur was silent for a minute, thinking about what Francis had asked him. If he said he didn't know, which was what he was going to do anyways, Francis would have no reason to keep him alive. He nursed the cut on his chin with the fear that it wouldn't be the last.

The thought that everyone was having would be a good one to supplement this lie—he didn't know Ivan at all. In fact, not a conversation had occurred between them. Not back in twelve, not on the train or in the two weeks since they'd arrived in the capitol. But this thought was easily believable, since Francis himself had thought it just minutes earlier.

"He headed uphill. I'm sure of it. We should go up there—together. I can't goddamn stand you—but nonetheless, let's make an alliance."

Arthur suddenly had a much better chance in these games, with such a trained ally. He'd have protection, he'd have control—after all, he was the one with the 'knowledge'. As Francis met his eyes, he smiled, and more blood poured down his chin.

* * *

Ludwig was already over the mountain.

He hadn't wasted any time since the cornucopia. When the canon went off, he was scanning the tributes no matter how much the sunlight burned his eyes. He was thundering across the field, towards the woods a minute later. He didn't grab any supplies, any weapons except a knife that'd been thrown in his direction—it was all just 'get as far away as you can, as fast as you can', to him.

He hadn't left without his ally, though. He wasn't doing this for himself. Had he been alone, he would probably have stuck around and tried to take out some of the weaker tributes. There was no way he'd end up making any alliances in the arena—too abrasive of an atmosphere and he'd just shut himself down. Not a chance in hell of making it. He wasn't alone, though.

The proof of this trudged beside him in the form of a short red-headed boy who was nearly clinging to his arm. He wasn't, though, hands simply hovering around Ludwig's sleeves and sticking close to him. This was Feliciano. He was rather useless—as a fighter, he was useless. Ludwig knew this, and he didn't know why he allied with him. Perhaps it was that, during all the times they'd talked, Feliciano was the best at getting him calmed down. The best at keeping his head. Ludwig just needed someone to protect.

He stuck close to him only because he was so nervous. When they got so high Feliciano's ears popped, he started to get a little more relaxed.

The two of them had forged an alliance during the two week training sessions. At first, when things were relatively ambiguous between all the tributes, Feliciano did nothing to train. He didn't have any special skills except for cooking and housework, and that wasn't anything he'd probably ever need again. Eventually, Ludwig got tired of seeing him moping in the corner of the gym, resigned, and approached him.

During all his time in the transportation district, number five, he built up lots of muscle, lots of brawn and moderate brain, from the engine work. His hand-eye coordination was impeccable—a wonderful blessing for Feliciano. Ludwig would be hard to beat.

He started to train the boy from district eleven. His brother, Lovino, hadn't liked that, because of the obvious mistrust he had of other tributes, but he let the training happen anyways because it couldn't really hurt anything. It would only slightly improve Feliciano's chances, and Lovino's making a fuss wouldn't be productive, even if he didn't like Ludwig.

Feliciano really didn't know Lovino was dead. Ludwig had pulled him away as fast as he could—he didn't know what he'd do if Feliciano died in the cornucopia battle, so he just decided to run with him. "Ludwig. Ludwig, what about my brother?"

The larger shrugged tensely. "I don't know, Feli. We'll find him if we can." He grabbed onto Feliciano's hand and kept walking up a steeper hill.

The terrain here was mostly craggy rock, the sun beating down on them and the air rushing through their lungs, uncomfortably thin. Ludwig worried about Feliciano fainting, but determined that possibility amongst the tamest things that could happen. He could deal with that.

He felt as though he were obligated to care for Feliciano. Now that he trained him and rescued him from a battle that certainly would have meant death for the redhead, he carried a certain degree of responsibility as well as attachment. He'd managed to win him over in such a short period of time. Ludwig wanted them to survive until the last possible moment. He wasn't sure what he'd do then.

As soon as the mountain started to slope down again, Ludwig determined that they were too far to the east to hit the peak; which was good. If they wanted to avoid people, they'd have to be on the lowest possible ground as far to the north as they could be. He kept them going down, descending from the thin air and coming back into tree-level—he didn't want to go back into the forest, though. It had too many places to hide, and made him so nervous.

As they headed down the slope, Feliciano recommended they find a place to hide, or to rest. Both. "Let's set up a base of operations. We have to find food. If we have shelter, Capitan, we don't have to worry about moving around."

"True." Agreed Ludwig. "Let's look for an overhang or a cave even. Do not make a fire. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" Feli nearly smiled, but Ludwig saw the expression slide off his face. The mood was still too thick for him to be happy just yet. Once they would be out of danger for a while, he'd start to smile again. Ludwig was sure.

A suitable overhang was only a few hundred yards away—a craggy, grey rock jutted out from the mountainside and barren, scratchy bushes grew around the sides of it.

They decided to go into the forest down below and get some branches to cover the rest—to lean the branches against the top of the overhang would make good walls, disguise them while they slept, and keep them hopefully warmer during the night. Ludwig would try to light a fire and turn it to coals inside the man-made hut—yes, that sounded good. That would keep Feliciano warm.

The first part of the plan ended up working splendidly—they went down to the woods together, because neither trusted each other enough to leave them to fend for themselves. Ludwig carried full branches with leaves and all, and Feliciano gathered smaller sticks and lots of leaves to make it look more natural. It only took them two trips to cover the whole thing.

By the time Feli was putting on the final touches—spreading the leaves more naturally, moving one of the larger sticks so the interior would he larger, knocking some dirt down from the overhang so it covered the side pretty well— it was already getting darker. Ludwig had left an opening by the side the overhang was against the mountain; this would be their door. It was only just big enough for him to slip through, but Feliciano could pass with ease.

The two of them surveyed the inside, just for a moment, before they heard the trumpets of the capitol's song start outside. Ludwig watched Feliciano's eyes turn into dinner plates— He scrambled for the door and Ludwig followed him as quickly as he could manage, as not to knock the entrance to their cave out of its position.

The logo was projected in the sky. Ludwig's stomach turned. This was when they'd see the names and faces of the people who died just a few frenzied hours ago.

The trumpets wailed still, and the projections started.

A career came onto the screen. No one had expected that—it was rare for a career to die so early, but it wasn't unwelcome. They were terrifying when they were coming after you, of course. He had dark hair and cool eyes. Emblazoned under his picture—Roderich Edelstein.

As his photo phased out, another came up—this time a blonde boy from district three. He wore glasses. His blue eyes betrayed nothing, and had nothing to betray. He was dead now. Under his photo was Eduard—the photo disappeared before Ludwig could read the name.

Third was a boy from district five with tired eyes and a long face—dark eyes and dark brown curls dominated his features: Heracles Carapusi. Ludwig hadn't known him before, but he swore now to remember all the names.

Ludwig tensed before the next face appeared—but district six did not appear on the projection. Alfred, who'd come here with him, was still alive. Instead appeared a small and thin boy from district eight—his eyes were narrow points and his nose was flat and rounded. His hair was long—thin, flattened to his head. Ludwig remembered seeing him in the training rooms sometimes. His aim with a bow was impressive, and he was stronger than he looked. Ludwig was disappointed when Wang Yao's name appeared below the photo.

Toris Laurinaitis from district nine followed—his eyes were bright in the photo, different from everyone else's. They were a vibrant green, even in the slightly faded projection. Brown hair and a thin face—a pointed nose. He was kind, to Ludwig's knowledge. He hadn't spoken to him directly, but from seeing him around, Ludwig just tried not to be to shaken. All these people are dead.

Feliciano was shaking beside him. Ludwig could only figure why—he didn't want Lovino to be dead. Ludwig gripped Feli's shoulder to steady him, and Feliciano held onto the hand clasped there.

District ten came up—prolonging their wait. There appeared a boy with prominent cheekbones and taut, tan skin. Green eyes and wild brown hair. Here was Antonio Fernandez, as was listed, another tribute who'd been rather skilled in the training room. Ludwig could do the math, however. This meant that Sadik was alive, Alfred was alive. Berwald and Matthias were alive, and still a threat.

District eleven. Ludwig's stomach did flips.

There was Lovino, his almond-shaped eyes and curly hair and mouth downturned like he always looked. Feliciano made a sound—a cross, like a wail and a scream. It bubbled from his throat and spilled from his lips as the Vargas name was shining in the sky like a star. His own brother was dead already, the stronger brother was the first to die. Feliciano fell to the ground, not crying, not screaming. He only let that _sound_ echo, to match with the tacky capitol theme resounding around them.

Ludwig kneeled beside him, watching the projection close, and listening to the theme die down, sinking into an overwhelming silence.

* * *

They were settling down for the night—more than one precarious alliance had been made that day. No packs had formed, but that didn't mean these two weren't formidable when they worked together. Matthias, from district two, and Lukas from four. One trained well with an axe, and another that could probably kill you with his gaze.

They'd made a business agreement—that's what they called it—during training that said they'd work together for at least the first few days. Until Lukas could find his brother, it would be the two of them. Matthias was bewildered at his unyielding determination to find him—personally, he hated the other boy who came from his district. Berwald might be a strong ally, but that didn't mean he wanted anything to do with him and his sniveling attitude. He was weak minded—killing wasn't on his platter, and as a career, that was foolish.

Lukas told him all about how to survive in the wild—to find food, to fish and to set traps. And to fish. That seemed to be what he knew the most about. Coming from four, the place where that was the main export, that wasn't surprising. Stupid fishboy.

Matthias personally just wanted to kill something. Do something fun. They had to sleep under lousy trees and keep watch for the night, take shifts and all that fuckin' jazz.

Lukas—Lukas won't shut up. Stop talking, dammit. "I just want to do my district something proud, alright, man? I'm gonna make a kill during these games or die trying."

"That's the idea, dumbfuck." Lukas threw a rock at Matthias' head, but he caught it.

Matthias had grabbed a bag during their flight, and it ended up containing a blanket and an empty flask. During their day, they'd walked up the mountain, only encountering someone briefly. It was some blondie from district nine—they paid him no mind unless he approached them, but he ran away.

They were about halfway up the mountain now. Lukas decided it was a bad idea to go up any farther until daylight, and Matthias agreed with him for once. Fighting was one thing, but fighting in the dark was only for people who really wanted a challenge. Matthias didn't like challenges, only victories. Lukas thought that one of them could sleep on the blanket for a few hours, then the other could keep watch. They'd wake them up for their shift after a few hours.

Matthias was stupidly trusting, but Lukas had no intention of murdering him. Who would kill the career offering them alliance? If he was with Matthias, his chances were improved tenfold already. It was a symbiotic alliance—Lukas was the brains, Matthias the brawn.

Now, in the dark, Lukas trusted Matthias a fraction less. He offered to take the first watch. Matthias sighed, took the blanket from the bag and laid it on the ground. He flopped down on top of it, his shoulders curling in as he slept on his side. Lukas sat only a few feet away, listening to his breathing become calmer, mellowing out until it was clear that Matthias was asleep.

It would be so easy to kill him now. Take the axe—bloodied, leaning against the tree—swing it down— shut up. You're not here to kill him, Lukas. That's not the directive. Finding Emil is the directive.

A rustle in the bushes interrupted his internal argument—Lukas was standing, his eyes adjusted to the dark. Someone's thin shoes crunched some leaves as they stepped into the clearing.

A boy with dark hair and black eyes came into view, his features fuzzy in the shadows. Lukas recognized him from district three—Kiku. He clutched something by his side. It looked like a sword.

He looked exhausted, and to be honest, that's how Lukas felt. Kiku wasn't running, but he wasn't attacking either. They met each other's eyes for a while.

It felt like forever, actually. They just watched each other, standing there for a while. Lukas trying to determine what Kiku wanted. Was it to join them? Or to kill Matthias? The larger was still sleeping, as his breaths revealed.

Eventually Kiku started to set his sword on the ground, and Lukas returned to the tree he'd been sitting at. He felt the knobs of his spine against the grooves in the bark, his jacket not thick enough to shield him. Kiku sat down at a tree directly across from his—they made peace, without speaking a word.

Kiku eventually laid down amongst the leaves, trusting Lukas to watch over him.

Afraid Matthias might kill him if he woke, Lukas kept watch all night. He didn't sleep even a wink. In the filtering light of the cold, foggy morning, he watched Kiku's dark eyes flutter open. He collected his sword, attaching it to a belt, and then stood.

He met Lukas' eyes, and bowed deeply. On the cracking dawn of the second day, Kiku Honda walked into the foggy woods behind him. Hours later, Matthias would wake up.

* * *

Writing this stuff is such a trip. I'll have long chapters, so long waits. Each chapter takes up a day in the story's time. Be back soon, _**please please please review.**_

**District = Specialty**

**(tributes)**

District 1 = luxury items  
(france + austria)  
District 2 = masonry  
(denmark + sweden)  
District 3 = electronics  
(estonia + japan)  
District 4 = fishing  
(norway + iceland)  
District 5 = power  
(greece + prussia)  
District 6 = transportation  
(america + germany)  
District 7 = Lumber  
(finland + canada)  
District 8 = textiles  
(china + turkey)  
District 9 = grain  
(lithuania + poland)  
District 10 = livestock  
(spain + latvia)  
District 11 = agriculture  
(italy + romano)  
District 12 = coal mining  
(england + russia)


	2. DAY 2

** SORRY FOR SUCH A LONG WAIT! THIS FIC IS VERY HARD FOR ME TO WRITE**

* * *

Berwald stayed awake for most of the night. He was a light enough sleeper that he probably would have woken up if anything bad happened—that's the only reason he slept for even a while. He wanted to give Tino more sleep than himself. There was no real way to tell how many hours it was than to count, and he had no energy for that. He wasn't willing to devote time to anything other than defense. He knew his energy had to be high level for the first few days—and the last few days. There was no telling how long this would last.

He'd seen these games last as long as two or three weeks, and as short as five days. The blood ran thick and red during that year. He'd been very young. The girl from his district came back and she lived in the victor's village, now. It made him swell with district pride, but feel sicker and sicker with each thought like that.

He thought about things for a long time. He thought about what would be good for him to do next—he'd already had a kill. Going home would mean seeing everyone again, bringing honor to his district and having more than just these games ahead of him, but it meant killing more. That boy had looked so shocked and scared—he was wearing glasses. Berwald didn't get a good look at his eyes behind them, but he'd felt and heard and smelled the blood pumping in this boy's veins.

Berwald slid a hand down his jacket's arm, feeling punctures in the tough material. Nail marks where the glasses boy had gripped him. The boy had probably drawn blood, but it was only a little sore. The wounds weren't deeper than he could handle without a hitch.

Convincing himself that he was alright took a while—physically, he _was_ fine. He had worse injuries from jumping off his cousin's rooftop in district two. He'd just never made a kill before. Not a real one. He'd thrown knives into the hearts of countless dummies, he'd struck down birds and even a raccoon. All his training hadn't taught him how to patch up these holes in his jacket, or patch up this burning in the back of his mind. Guilt.

Eventually, as the first light was just starting to appear, perhaps some five hours later, he woke the sleeping boy. He nudged Tino's shoulder—the younger snapped awake, incredibly aware of where he was. Berwald jolted, his hand sliding up to Tino's face to keep him calm. If he'd cried out, they could potentially be in screaming distance of someone.

They met during training and Berwald wasn't really willing to let him go, now. Tino wasn't afraid of coming out into the arena. Well, about as not-afraid as you could get. Going out to your death would scare anyone. The boy was a bit gullible too—not to say Berwald had any intention at the moment of doing something bad to him, but you had to be gullible to ally with someone to huge and terrifying, let alone a career. Or maybe the relationship was symbiotic—Tino's protection for Berwald's security?

Neither really knew the other's intentions, so therefore things were relatively tense. Still, Berwald's hand on his face wasn't an entirely unwelcome touch. He was oriented by touch—it was grounding to have someone's hand to clutch in a moment of collapse. Tino roused quite easily, jerking awake and understanding when Berwald just grunted and turned to lay down. The career's back was to him, in the dimmest of light, his thin jacket pulled tight enough so you could see the bones in his spine and probably count them. It was still pretty dark. Tino wished for something.

He leaned against the tree between them and started to rub his eyes in an effort not to doze. He didn't sleep well when they were in the capitol, and he certainly wouldn't sleep well out here.

His family had pretty much been ready to say goodbye forever. When the peacekeepers had allowed them in, they hadn't run in and embraced him like he imagined they would. His mother waked in quietly, his siblings behind. She stroked his hair and said 'I always loved you' like he was already dead. He'd cried almost immediately—the thought was so jarring, that she had already given him up. Like he wasn't worth the trouble—it wasn't worth it to watch the games and cheer him on. He imagined her looking on with glazed-over eyes as he died on the screen in the town circle. He screamed in her face, his siblings screamed back. The peacekeepers pulled her out, his sister clawing at the door like darkness sucked out of the room. It left a silence, balancing on the tip of a needle. He felt like his heart would lurch out of his chest.

He was from eight—the lumber district. It was one of the largest ones, with tall pine forests like this one that made him feel almost at home here. His family's living was made based on how many trees they chopped and how many they loaded into cars to ship to the capital and district one for god knows what. Some of it went to other districts, but of course the odds were stacked for the Capitol. During the reaping he'd been drawn with a boy he'd never even seen before, Matthew. They'd shared glances and things, but their conversation before the games was minimal. Matthew seemed kind of resigned, like Tino's mother had.

He wondered if she was watching at this very moment, whether her eyes were glazed or not. He wondered if she liked that he'd allied with Berwald, or if she disapproved of him. He bore holes in the back of the career's neck.

It'd been dim when they first awoke, but Tino let Berwald sleep for a long time. It must've been three or four hours after that, late morning, when he woke Berwald.

Over the few hours, he became more awake, more intent. He was expert at listening for things in the forest. The crack of an axe into a tree trunk was the most familiar sound his world. He could pinpoint one a mile away; or so he claimed. There weren't many birds in his home, like this place, as well, so it wasn't distracting. He heard a crunch once or twice and had taken a walk a hundred feet in a circle around where Berwald was sleeping—it wasn't too far, but he didn't dare move farther than that. His walk concluded nothing, anyways. He assumed it was a pinecone falling, or perhaps the game makers playing tricks. He wasn't shocked in the slightest.

When Berwald finally woke up, he quickly turned to Tino accusingly. His voice inflected anger. "Why didn't y' wake m' up sooner?"

Tino, standing by their tree, didn't do anything but meet his eyes tensely. He didn't want Berwald to be angry with him. "I-I-I w-wanted you to sleep enough! You looked exhausted. And after yesterday, at the cornucopia… I owe you, for protecting me."

He saw Berwald suddenly flinch. He didn't mean protect. He meant _KILL KILL EDUARD YOU KILLED EDUARD YOU KILLED HIM BERWALD_

He just hung his head. Tino looked so much like Eduard, sans glasses. "It's okay. I forgive ya." He ran his fingers over the puncture wounds on his arms, feeling the holes in his jacket. Feeling the holes in his calm façade.

Tino gathered their things, and they were walking again that day. Getting farther up the mountain would be important.

* * *

Gilbert was faring the worst of anyone. He wasn't used to the outdoors.

It was so damn hot. God damn, it was so hot.

He'd headed east from the cornucopia. It was his plan all along, to stay out of everyone's way. He was hoping to go around the mountain, _not_ wanting to end up in the inevitable blood bath up there, and he just wanted to stick it out. He trusted himself to be able to walk all that way. If he wasn't interrupted, he would certainly make it. He wanted to make just one kill to fulfill his goal—a bloodthirsty goal, even if someone had already beaten it. This was a rather ambitious goal for him, a rather petty albino from district five.

The fool who'd come here with him was already dead, he knew. It'd been flown in the sky that previous night. Seeing his picture with the name he'd already forgotten at that point, but now remembered, with the huge 5 in the sky was rather jarring. He imagined the picture and the name replaced, his red eyes looking black against the stars. Gil spent the night at the edge of the woods, sleeping in fits under a bed of moss and dirt. It still clung to his white hair and pale, clammy skin.

Gilbert couldn't say that wasn't a shock, that the other tribute was dead. Heracles was a big guy, and he looked kind of promising as a victor he supposed. Less than someone like Alfred or Ivan, however, and Gil guessed that was why Heracles hadn't gotten that many sponsors anyways. They were all too invested in the bigger players. Gil didn't know if he had any himself. He hoped he did.

He'd walked some distance under the trees after he'd woken up that morning—the shade was cool and the wind was nearly nonexistent. He hated the outdoors. Back in district 5, he was only in charge of taking care of his own household—his family did the work in the power plants and he stayed inside. The sun would harm his skin, would harm his heart, if he went out too much. So he only stayed lonely, washing dishes and keeping bare feet on the tile. After a few hours, perhaps two miles or more of walking, he came out into a field. He didn't feel good about it. It wouldn't give him any cover, so he'd have to keep low or go very quickly. But it seemed to stretch on forever—the grass here was very short, different from the clearing he'd walked through before. He wondered if the landscape was changing. He wouldn't put it past them—the conniving little bastards, the game makers.

The mountain was farther away now—he was a little less concerned about getting found. No one would go out this far… The peak glowed bluish white with the glacial snow. Clouds milled around it ominously, and he felt his stomach roll tumultuously. Someone would go up there to scrape those clouds with their fingernails and it would be their last sensation. They would have a final scream ripped from them and it would echo down the mountain down to him in this hot, hot meadow.

It wasn't even really a meadow. He felt so damn tired… Too hot. His skin was searing.

Back in the district, it was never this sunny. He hadn't seen this much of daylight at once before, but he'd been preparing for a while. He held his hands up in front of the mountain in his vision, comparing the sharpness to the sharpness of his fingernails. The backs of his hands and the fronts of his wrists were flushed red. His skin was enflamed, his heart was too labored.

He kept walking, but the forest in front of him was probably a half mile or more away. He didn't make it that far.

Gilbert collapsed near the far edge of the field, so close to the promise of shade. The day was not yet half over, the sun at its highest point.

He could feel the heat radiating from his face, beating in hot waves in a field that should never have been this hot. He felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. He sort of _was_ an ant under a magnifying glass—the game makers were targeting him for his condition. They were behind screens, pointing all the heat from the arena—right there, we'll make the sun shine brightest. We'll boil him.

His heart pounded and his head spun, until he was no longer conscious.

There was a camera there on the grass in front of him. It was one of thousands hidden around the arena. Collapsed in the field, Gilbert's body would only last a few more minutes, but to the camera, he already looked dead.

It was no surprise when the cannon went off.

* * *

When he heard the cannon, Emil nearly cried again. His time in the arena had already been rough and tumultuous. He'd lost Lukas and couldn't find him. It could have been him, kill marked by the cannon, and he wouldn't know.

Back on the first day—He'd gotten separated from everyone during the scramble to get away—he'd run in an arc wide enough to grab a sickle and a small pack, and then escape into the woods. He didn't stop running, hearing a crinkling of someone trailing him. His white-blonde hair probably stuck out like a sore thumb in the arena. He was incredibly aware of how much he didn't blend in.

After a few minutes of intense concentration, he couldn't hear the crinkle of leaves other than his own footsteps, to he veered off to the side. There was a stream below him—he lowered himself down to the bank. Would it be smart to run some mud through his hair? He looked down the stream to an overhang on the opposite bank—there was a portion shallow enough to wade across, and he made it under the grassy ridge. Emil ran his fingers through the clay and silt in the stream bank, running them through his hair and across his face, suiting him for crouching here.

There turned out to be a small tin of crackers—not entirely useless. He spent the night there, huddled under the outcrop with as much mud pushed in front of him as he could. It was wet and uncomfortable, but at least it was a good hiding spot. He would probably stay there for as long as he could, he decided. It wasn't too close to the starting point, and it had a good water source. He ate one cracker, and counted eleven more that he had left, closing the tin again and stashing it.

He only crawled out from the spot cautiously to watch the death count—when he heard the capitol theme, he suddenly became worried about Lukas. What about Lukas!? All his plans centered on finding his brother—the one who'd come here with him. He held his breath so tightly when district four was to appear—but it only skipped to the boy from 5, Heracles. Emil's head hurt. Lukas was still out there. He hoped he was trying to find him.

When he awoke the next morning, he didn't know where he was for a minute. It was enclosed, heavy earth above him and to the sides, other than a stream of light shining from one direction. He could see water trickling down the stream in front of him, memories flooding back.

Leaving his bag with the crackers in it under the overhang, he crawled out from under it. His jacket and pants and boots and even his face—everything was coated with mud. He tried to wash some of it off in the stream, the water easily cleaning it from the waterproof fabric.

His sickle was clenched in one hand—a weapon he was unfamiliar with, but a weapon nonetheless. If someone attacked, he hoped he could swing it hard enough. God that was a terrifying thought. He wished he had a trident or spear, or a harpoon. Something that would feel right in his hands pruned from the dampness of the stream and the mud.

He was going to try to find bark or ferns or something large enough to cover the bottom of the place he slept, or to find something to eat. He wasn't going to go too far.

The surrounding area of the stream was about the same as the rest of the forest—perhaps a bit greener, because of the water's presence. The pine trees here were a bit taller, dropped less needles, rustling in the brief wind blowing down the mountain.

Emil had no real plan about the mountain. He didn't come to the same conclusion as the other tributes—he didn't really think about who would gain the high ground and who would wait for the rest to gain it. He wasn't the type to go into the woods. His only real talent was fishing, and even that was outshone by his brother, Lukas, who was trapped in this forest as well as he.

After Emil's name had been drawn at the reaping, Lukas was quick to volunteer. At such an inlying district, it wasn't really uncommon to have volunteers. It was a bit unpredictable, as they usually didn't have anyone that confident. Not that many people from district four won the hunger games, in the end.

Emil found the thing he was looking for pretty quickly—lush grasses and ferns grew a bit away from the bank, and he looked for the thickest portion. The green was a bit dizzying as the sun bounced from one leaf to the next, filtering through and making the forest bathed in a green-yellow light.

As soon as he'd found the ferns—they were about a thousand feet, perhaps, from his bank— and started to cut them, he heard something. The broad green leaves were packed thickly and were tall enough for him to crouch behind—his hair still had mud caked in it, so he would be safe from being spotted that way. If this tribute—he was certain those were footsteps. There was no way they could be anything else. The sickle that he'd been using to cut the ferns was now held tightly at his side.

For a moment, he was scared. He wished Lukas were with him. He wished the tribute would just go away and he could survive here alone on the bank for a while—to get into the groove of things, so he could concentrate on surviving long enough to end the games.

Then a thought struck him. If he were going to live, this tribute would have to die anyways. If this tribute died, Lukas would be proud of him. They would live.

He had to convince himself… that he could do this. He had to jump this person. They didn't sound too heavy—maybe it was one of those district ten or eleven tributes—the small ones that didn't know how to fight. He wasn't too experienced himself, but he was certain he was better than the kids from outlying districts.

He creeped forward in the ferns, catching a glimpse of long blonde hair and a slight frame. District… nine. Grain. The other from there was already dead. Perhaps he… could take care of this one.

Emil crept closer to the tribute, edging through the ferns and doing his best to move past them silently. The boy was breathing kind of strangely, like he wasn't used to running like this. He appeared to be taking a rest by the ferns, standing protectively by a tree and looking around him.

Well, in the opposite direction. Emil had the perfect chance right now—to strike.

Emil suddenly sprang up, and before the tribute could even move, his sickle was around the front of their neck. Emil's hand was covering their mouth before they could cry out. He started to press the weapon into their flesh—you can do this. You can do it, Emil. It's not real, it's only a game. The sickle made deep grooves then drew beads of blood—the blonde tribute started to struggle, a scream muffled by pale fingers.

Emil thought everything was going alright until he felt sharp pain in his leg—a _deep_ and _intense_ sharp pain. He couldn't stop himself from crying out, dropping the sickle and leaving the other tribute to fall over in front of him. He fell backwards, looking at the dagger protruding from his leg.

God _damn,_ he'd just gotten stabbed. The tribute's face was finally visible to him—a long nose and pointed chin, blonde hair falling everywhere. His green eyes, while half lidded it seemed, were intense and full of fear. Blood dripped from his chin and all down his neck, thick streams in the center, where Emil had pressed the hardest. The sickle lay in the ferns until the tribute quickly grabbed it, wielding it against Emil now and advancing toward him.

Emil made a quick decision—he grabbed the knife hilt. Given only a few seconds, he pulled it from the wound.

He'd never felt anything like it before. A warm, blossoming pain. Something probably more bloody and damaging than he needed right now, but he had to do it.

As the blonde boy came down on him, holding the sickle to his shoulder, Emil met his strike. His palm was bloody and pressed to the flat of the knife as it met the other's weapon, the metal clanging together, forcing the knife sideways. The sharp blade of the sickle sliced Emil's fingers, but he quickly grabbed the boy's arm and wrenched it away from him.

While the kid had lost his balance, Emil used this moment to get on top of him, the knife digging into the thin jacket fabric on his chest.

The boy hit back, this time striking Emil in the head with the sickle. He felt the flowering pain spread through his brain, the urge to defend only getting stronger. His eyes unfocused, his brain screaming, he was gasping for breath.

The knife dug deeper into the boy's chest, and he heard him yell. It wasn't too loud, but the blond rolled off of him and into the tall grass, clutching his chest and his neck. He'd lost a _lot_ of blood.

Emil's head pounded, and his vision had already blurred. He felt himself falling. Lying there, he fell into darkness, watching a tiny silver parachute fall down, down. Emil was unconscious, and presumably the other tribute was too, even before it hit the ground.

* * *

Hours later, Emil wasn't the first to wake.

He came to consciousness just after the tribute beside him—he could hear labored breathing and the rustle of legs kicking in the tall grass.

He sat up, painfully, his head tilting and brain tumbling with the concussion and head-wound he was bound to have. He could finally see straight, however, and therefore get a good look at the state of his victim.

He was glad he was faring better than the blond. The blood on his neck had dried and partially congealed, baring muscles and meat of his neck that wasn't meant to see the open air. His chest didn't look as bad, but it had bled a lot, a clear tear of skin under the waterproof jacket that dripped red liquid.

The tribute's eyes were closed, his breath was labored and he looked very, very pale.

Emil's eyes shifted down, to where a silver parachute lay by his thigh. He recognized it—from past games. It was always something very, very useful, as sponsors paid so much to get these to the tributes. He wondered solemnly if it was for him or for this boy dying beside him.

He felt something drip down his forehead, but ignored it. It was water, or mud, or something. It must've been. His head ached.

His lust for death was gone. Now that this horror was shown to him first hand, he no longer wanted to kill this kid. He didn't want to injure anybody else. He looked down to his own leg and thought that it might not have happened at all- It looked just as bad, bleeding freely, aching terribly. The knife must've ruptured muscles and skin, ruined his chances of walking—damn. God dammit. He didn't think he could walk, even back to the stream. He hoped this parachute was for him.

With that, he unscrewed the lid and dropped it on the ground weakly. The bottom compartment housed two things—a circular container, also silver, padded with as much silky fabric as would fit on the inside of the container, and a slip of folded paper.

He felt bile rise in his throat as he opened it.

_Save him._

He looked over to the tribute there beside him, struggling for breath past his damaged throat. He looked up at the sky above the trees, where this parachute had come from. _Okay._ Okay. He thought.

The container ended up being filled with a clear balmy material—salve. It didn't smell like anything he'd ever encountered, probably more potent and fast-acting than he could imagine. He moved over to the tribute, and he cracked open a green eye, looking up at him terrified. Emil shushed him, taking some of the salve on his finger and reaching toward his open wound.

This wasn't going to work. It was too dirty, blood everywhere, caked on the wound and already scabbing unnaturally. He wasn't going to be able to move on his own, though. Neither was Emil. He felt more liquid on his face, dripping from his hair, and guessed at this point that it wasn't water or mud. His wound was more serious than he'd guessed.

He guessed he was going to have to drag him, all the way to the river.

It took a long time. Emil wasn't fit to stand up and put the tribute on his back, not while he was carrying this salve, and not with his leg. He would hook his arms around the tribute's shoulders, then drag him a few feet, then collect himself. Then drag again.

Through the tall grass, it was tough. He couldn't really see where he was going, but he when they got to the pine needles, he was home free. He hated the pine needles, but this place was so healthy, few were actually on the ground at this point.

The salve rested in the other tribute's hands. He had enough bearings to grasp it weakly, holding onto it to curb the pain, of sorts.

It took him twenty minutes to reach the stream. A thousand feet or so later, he was gently pulling him down the bank. He pulled off the tribute's jacket and shirt the best he could, since they were so bloody and torn to shreds, and would only hinder the washing of his wounds. The blond cried out when he touched the water—when it washed over his neck. Emil could see flakes of blood cracking off him, sent down the water's gentle flow.

Emil had a bit of a mind to clean his head wound—the blood on it was mostly fresh. He felt light-headed, but head wounds always bleed a lot. It didn't seem to hurt until he touched it and pulled his hand away—blood coated his palm. His hair must be dyed red by now, no joke. He ducked his head under, and the amount of blood that came off in the stream made him gag. It hurt like hell—to touch it to the water, but it was all for the best. As long as he didn't actually pass out, of course.

After he was sure it was clean enough, and he could see straight, the other boy was mostly conscious anyways and was cleaning his chest with the most feather-light touches. The water had proved reviving, and he even leaned down to drink a bit while he was washing off. Emil's leg had cleaned off too; most of the blood out of the fabric and the wound didn't look so horrible anymore, even if it was deep.

He dragged the two of them out of the water, the boy helping him onto the bank when his legs proved too weak.

"What is your name?" Emil asked, feeling guilty for even being around this kid after his attempt at fucking _murdering _him.

"Feliks." His voice was gruff from lack of use, and from his wound. "Łukasiewicz." Emil didn't think he could repeat that name if he tried, so he'd just settle for Feliks anyways. Looking around, he reached up the bank for the salve he'd told Feliks to drop there before they washed off.

"Alright. I'm going to put some of this salve on your neck. Alright? It's gonna hurt… any way I do it, it'll hurt."

Feliks looked like he didn't want to talk, but he replied. "Okay. It's okay." His accent was heavy, to the point where it was hard to understand along with the gruffness of his injured voice.

Emil leaned over him, trying not to touch his chest, now revealed to be open, bleeding once more. The flow wasn't nearly as substantial—but it was bleeding nonetheless. It wasn't as serious as the neck wound, however, so Emil treated that first.

As soon as the fingers coated with salve touched the open wound, Feliks gasped loudly.

He was trying not to scream with the pain, Emil could tell, and doing a pretty good job. Only grunts and groans escaped from his mouth, strain evident in his eyes. Emil was smoothing as much salve as he could over the wound—the blood mixing with the balmy stuff, shining in the dappled sunlight through the trees.

Just moments after Emil lifted his hand; Feliks' expression had already softened. The wound didn't look a lot different at this point, but there were probably some serious capitol painkillers in this salve. Emil wouldn't doubt it.

He guessed, since the salve came with a note of 'save him' that it would heal the wounds quickly as well. If he'd gone completely untreated much longer, both of them would have bled out, most likely. But anything could happen in these games.

Emil applied the salve to Feliks' chest wound—it was a stab from the knife, but not too deep. It'd more scraped across his skin, so it bled a lot, but he would be fine. It was nothing like the wound in Emil's leg, that would most likely prevent him from walking for a while.

Emil spread some of the salve on that, too. As much as he had put on Feliks' neck if not more. The wound ran deep, much deeper and more painful than anything he'd ever felt before. Feliks helped him when it was too painful, taking the salve on his own fingers and bracing Emil's leg when he tried to move it away. Feliks wasn't that strong, and had a bit of trouble with it.

Soon after, Feliks told him to lean closer, and he dipped his fingers into the salve one last time—to apply it to Emil's head wound. He wasn't sure how much it would hurt until his fingers actually touched it—some flap of skin shifted and he yelped, shuddering. To think there was flesh loosely held, unsanitary, grotesquely to the front of his skull was—agh!

He shook the whole time, wishing Feliks would just be done already so he could ignore his head wound again. He wished that hadn't happened at all. He wondered why Feliks was being so kind in reciprocation at all, after his attack.

They both laid on the ground again after that, breathing hard and assessing their individual wounds. Feliks put on his shirt and his jacket tenderly, ever so careful of his chest wound. He wished the sponsors had sent some bandages, or he'd picked some up at the cornucopia, but they had to deal with this for now. Emil screwed the lid onto the salve and set whatever was left on the ground next to them. He guessed he could live with this tribute until he found Lukas. Lukas was alive, and once he found him, he would probably kill Feliks—the same plan he'd had in the first place. Best not get too attached—you're all going to fucking die, anyways.

Emil suddenly remembered the crackers he'd left under the overhang—he told Feliks where it was. It wasn't like he was going to be able to put even an ounce of weight on his leg right now. Maybe the magic salve would solve that. Ha.

Feliks came back after a moment, muddier than he had been before, but carrying the bag Emil started the games with. He set it down between them, and Emil unscrewed the round silver tin of crackers, handing one to Feliks and taking one in his left hand.

Feliks took it in two bites, half and half, very quickly. Emil preferred to nibble it, to take in some of the flavor that he imagined being there—it was a pretty bland cracker, but it had some salt on it, and was probably a lot better than anything you'd find in this forest. He screwed the lid back on to Feliks' dismay, but both of them understood they had to be frugal. Who knows how long these games could last.

That's how their alliance started that afternoon, just after the sun was at its highest—they'd been unconscious at noon. That wouldn't be their most crucial moment, however.

* * *

"We should go back." Alfred said, and Raivis froze.

"I thought you said you wanted to get to the top of the mountain. Th-that was the plan." He wasn't really comfortable with unplanned catastrophes. Or, things that were destined to be catastrophes. Going back where? Going back to the cornucopia? They already had all the supplies they needed, they already had Alfred's shoulder bandaged—he certainly didn't mean to go back to where they saw Toris and Ivan—

"I know. I changed my mind. I'm gonna take out Ivan. There's no point in leaving him there in the woods." Alfred was already gathering their things from the place they'd spent the night, high in the trees—Alfred had leaned on a sturdy trunk of a deciduous tree, tied with a belt, while Raivis was tethered to a tall wavering pine. He was small enough it didn't matter, though. Alfred proved to be very, very good at wilderness survival. It was surprising, as his district didn't typically prove that. He was down on the ground, now, zipping up packs and shuffling leaves to make it look like they'd never been there.

Raivis was still uneasy. He straddled the thin branch he was perched on, holding the rope he'd tethered himself to the tree with while he was sleeping. "How do you know h-he's still in the woods in that area? We're just gonna go there to find how he's moved—"

"He's not really in the mental state to be moving around a lot. Plus, I don't think he's going up the mountain. It's like he's got a bounty on his head or something, dude. Everybody wants to be the one to kill Ivan." Raivis hated this talk of a person like they were an animal or a criminal. They were all just kids.

He wasn't going to fight, though. Alfred still intimidated the hell out of him. He wordlessly started to lower himself down the tree, to Alfred who was on the ground already.

He stopped below Raivis, his bandaged shoulder painfully visible. "Jump down, I'll catch you."

"Y-your shoulder, Alfre—"

"Just do it." Raivis let go of the branch, falling down into Alfred's strong arms. He didn't even falter, and Raivis must've been a hundred and ten pounds. He was like a tank when it came to injury. Raivis was increasingly wary of just who he was travelling with.

It was very quick from then—Alfred seemed to have packed up everything while Raivis was still worrying, and he got them on the path they'd come from in record time. It seemed like they would reach Ivan in a heartbeat.

In reality, it took another hour or so of walking. Whatever they'd covered after they watched Toris' struggle the previous day they had to cover again. They reached that clearing—identifiable by the cliff face they'd peered over, the blood spatters on the leaves on the ground. It made what had happened here a hundred times more real than it'd already seemed. Raivis shuddered again, more violently than normal shudders of his. Alfred hadn't even looked.

He was following some kind of trail. That's all Raivis could say. He didn't know how he was tracking Ivan, only that he was in a hunting mode and the tiny blond was just following.

The day was kind of pretty. The forest was some kind of hollow green mottled with the browns and oranges of decaying matter on the ground. The evergreen trees around them stood like tall soldiers, regimented and dark and foreboding. They were everywhere, the biggest part of this seemingly ancient natural forest. That's the trope of the games, it seemed. The mountain, like a towering force, faced them, and the trees pointing high against the sky—Raivis was trying too hard for some kind of metaphor.

At one point, Alfred stopped to inspect a tree. "This is where he spent the night. Look." He pointed at a black bag left on the ground, and how the leaves had been moved. "He's stupid for leaving that there. There's blood on the ground over here, too…" Raivis didn't want to see it, so he didn't look. It was undoubtedly Toris'. He didn't bother to, instead opting to try and swallow the lump in his throat.

They spent a while there. Alfred was trying to read the signs of which way to go, where he could have gone. Raivis didn't really have any contributions. He could only see what Alfred could, and there wasn't much.

"We should go around the mountain. If what I've figured is right, he should have gone that way." Alfred pointed in a direction through the trees, past many tall pines and in the direction to the right of the mountain. It was logical Ivan would go that way, if he wasn't going uphill.

"Come on. Hurry." Alfred's tone was commanding, and Raivis trembled.

It was another twenty minutes until they found him.

Ivan was stopped at a bush near a huge deciduous tree, plucking blackberries from its boughs and placing them into a cloth. His back was turned to them, broad shoulders extending what seemed like twice the width of Raivis' own. He was tall, the crown of his head reaching up to where the branches split in the tree in front of him. He looked about six feet or more, but that was a reasonable guess. Around him was a small clearing, surrounded by a ring of almost exclusively deciduous trees. Perhaps this area grew more of them for a reason, or maybe it was simply luck of the draw. Alfred and Raivis were perhaps a hundred and fifty feet back, crouched in a dip in the ground and behind some underbrush.

Alfred was clutching his sword tightly, and he turned to Raivis for a moment. "Give me your knives." Raivis froze. No, no. No, he couldn't do that. That was his only weapon—in a hostile situation, you never give up your only defense.

"I—no. Alfred, they're the only—"

"Dammit Raivis, _give me your knives._" Alfred hissed, scaring the smaller blonde to death. He fumbled, reaching his ever-shaking hands into his pockets and feeling one, two three… five knives. He took four of them out, handing them to Alfred.

"T-that's all of them." He lied.

Alfred clutched them in a muscular hand, clenching down, abusing his sword as well. His face looked pallid, his eyes steeled.

He stood.

Ivan didn't notice him until he was halfway across the clearing, racing towards him with the sword raised and ready to smash him into pieces. Alfred was silent other than the crunching of his feet, and by the time Ivan whirled around to meet him, he was far too close.

Ivan hadn't been ready for the attack. He ducked, crying out. He dropped the berries and the cloth onto the ground below, and rolled for his sword a few meters away while Alfred was recovering. He made quick work of standing up to face his enemy—meeting his angry and ruthless eyes for an instant before he came after him. Ivan's riled appearance was terrifying.

Ivan made a heavy swing with the iron sword, whizzing past Alfred's stomach and missing by a hair. The blond stepped into him, sending an elbow across his face—brutally hitting him, setting him off balance. Alfred was about to swing again as Raivis watched from the dip in the earth, but he didn't get to see it.

A blade slid into place along his throat, kissing him with the sharp metal edge. It was nothing but a whisper, no sound and no erratic movement—but it struck a pang of fear directly into Raivis. Who the hell could sneak up on him so—

A thin hand was suddenly twining its fingers in his hair tightly, clutching it violently and pulling hard. Raivis' head was jerked back—enough to see a blond boy with long hair, glasses, and the most intense look in his eyes. The knife was pressed harder to Raivis' throat.

He scrambled to think of something to do while this tribute debated killing him. The knife he hadn't given Alfred clicked against something else in his pocket, and he made a grab for it. His hand darted into his pocket, snatching the knife and lunging, trying to stab at the blond tribute's face over his shoulder.

He missed by a lot, but it was intimidating enough that the tribute let go of him and he spun, kicking him in the stomach as hard as he could. A quiet grunt, far too quiet for something desperate like this, sounded from the kid's lips. Raivis held the knife ready, his thumb pressed to the base of the handle and the blade flashing, matte black in the dappled light. The other tribute was holding his knife, a silver one, and lunged for him, slicing just the top of his kneecap from the tribute's position on the ground. Raivis hissed, jumping to his feet.

He glanced back at Alfred and Ivan, who were still fighting, though both had lost their swords and now they were just brawling in the middle of the clearing. Well, at least Alfred was. Ivan seemed down for the count, Alfred sitting on top of him, punching his face over and over… repeatedly. That's what Raivis saw, at least.

The blond tribute scrambled up, his stomach lurching, and they met each other's eyes again. This time the tribute looked different. There was something there now that wasn't before—some kind of perceivable innocence.

The boy took two or three steps back, then turned and ran. Raivis watched him, dumbfounded, as he stood poised with his knife, not a drop of blood on the black blade.

Ivan had almost blacked out by then, but he was still awake. He weakly pushed at Alfred's legs, blocked his punches, did everything to try and get him off. Alfred was breathing hard, hitting his face, his chest, his neck, anything his fist would hit when he swung.

Ivan suddenly gripped Alfred's calves, which were clamped around his torso—he wrenched them off, flipping Alfred onto his back with shocking strength. Alfred hit with a resounding thud on the dry earth, leaves scattering. Raivis watched in horror. He swung a meaty fist right into Alfred's jaw, making the blond scream aloud. He swung again, hitting his cheekbone, almost certainly breaking or, at the least _severely_ bruising it. Alfred curled in on himself, using toned arms to protect his face and head, pulling his knees up and kicking Ivan where he could—but the larger was on top of him, so his movement was restricted.

Ivan's head was spinning however, and he slumped, catching himself on his hands. Alfred didn't move, lying there on his side, holding his head.

Raivis watched as Ivan stood, shaking, knees clearly wobbling. Alfred didn't budge. Ivan moved across the clearing a quickly as his legs would take him, picking up his sword and running into the forest in the opposite direction.

Raivis felt like crying, seeing Alfred bleeding, hurt, bruised and probably concussed, lying in the middle of that clearing.

The dappled light filtered through the trees, but not for much longer as the sun descended. He started to move towards Alfred, worrying if Ivan or that other tribute should come back.

* * *

Ivan's trip through the forest was disappointingly short. He'd hoped he would get farther away, as far away from Alfred as he could get. Who knew just how long he would be incapacitated? Alfred could be pursuing him right now, for all he knew—he tried to move faster, but tripped over a root, sending him to the ground.

Tears leaked from his eyes. His head was on the verge of exploding it seemed. He had bruises and a split lip already forming. His eyebrow was bleeding, probably split as well. As soon as his head hit the ground, he knew he was done running.

He struggled to stand, his brow dripping blood, his nose certainly doing the same. Stumbling, he made a few more meters along the path, spying something that was sure to be a blessing—certainly.

A tree beside him had fallen—the roots had been torn out of the ground, exposing twisting the mazes of the plant's underground component. It had fallen into another tree—propped at perhaps a sixty degree angle, leaving a cavity where the roots were absent that was big enough for him to fit into.

He looked at it for a minute, seeing how the dying light shone on it, casting shadows down into the cavity where the tree had once taken root. It seemed so dark in there, despite it only being three or four feet deep—much of the dirt from the roots had fallen back into the hole, making a perfect hiding place, what felt like a coffin.

He felt the pounding in his head, felt it increase, his headache pinching tighter and tighter like a vice surrounding him in pain.

He crouched next to the cavity, lowering himself inside, praying that he'd at least be safe for a while.

He almost got his wish.

Ivan slipped in and out of consciousness—he was in that strange purgatory of dreaming, the kind where you aren't sure what's real and what's not. He was feeling around him, in his dream, trying to determine where the roots had broken off, but he kept feeling knives and broken, shattered glass embedded into the dirt beside him. He kept hearing Toris scream.

For a while he was back in district 12. His sisters were cooking dinner—Katyusha was smiling, speaking to him. He couldn't hear her. It was Toris' voice. Natalya was facing away from him, stoking the oven's coals and keeping the house warm. She never said much, but was incredibly responsible. It wasn't shocking in the least that she was more interested in cooking dinner—

A pang shot through his head. He was back in this space, darkness falling quickly. Where was the sword…

He'd left it. When he collapsed. "You killed with that sword, you shouldn't dirty your hands." Katyusha said in Toris' voice. Shut up, Katyusha. His hands were already dirty. More blood than she should ever see was on his hands alone.

"Brother, you left the sword." It was the voice of Antonio, from the lips of his sweet sister Natalya. "You're covered in blood, you disgusting, murderous fuck." _Shut up._ Shut up, Antonio, Natalya, whoever you—_shut up, shut up shut—_

He felt another pang in his head, and he let out a whimper. It felt like torture.

Voices sounded outside the cavity—someone was yelling. _Shut up,_ Ivan was thinking. Over and over again, stop it. My head hurts. Leave me alone. Stop. Stop it STOP IT.

Someone was leaning over the side of the cavity—looking down at him, his bruised and bloodied face. He was looking up at someone with white blond hair, bright eyes. They had blood and dirt matted into their hair, looking pained but shocked—Ivan thought he was a mirage. He expected him to open his mouth and start talking like Alfred—"You left the sword."

"Feliks—Over here! Feliks, hurry!" That was a new voice. Ivan struggled to keep his eyes open.

A second head peered over the side of the hole, looking in at him, his dilapidated murder-machine of a body. His coal-miner's body. This face was vaguely familiar—it was the other tribute from district nine. Toris' district. This face, with intense green eyes and long blonde hair, looked down at him with something he'd only seen so concentrated perhaps once in his life—Rage.

Feliks was holding the iron sword Ivan had forgotten. They probably found it on the ground a few meters away, and seen the blood droplets in the fading light, while it was still bright enough. The white-haired one followed the trail here.

Feliks was climbing down into the cavity—the coffin.

"B-be careful, Feliks!" Said the new voice.

"You forgot the sword," Toris-Katyusha said. Okay, Ivan echoed.

Feliks was looking down at him with that rage still instilled on his face. He knew who had killed Toris. He'd figured it out, and he wanted his revenge. The iron sword glinted in his hands.

Ivan, in his pseudo-dream, turned to Antonio-Natalya and told them, "I'm sorry I forgot the sword. I forgot the sword."

"Whatever," They said in Antonio's voice, "It's your coffin." He felt one last pang in his head.

Feliks raised the sword.

* * *

Arthur's legs were sorer than they'd ever been in his entire life. Even those days he had to go down into the mines weren't as bad as this. At least in district twelve they didn't have all these goddamn _mountains._

He'd been walking with Bonnefoy up to the top of the mountain all day. They spend a while the previous day getting fairly high up, but stopped rather early to build some kind of shelter upon the _frog's_ insistence. Arthur assumed they could just pull some brush over to them and sleep under that cover, but _no._ They had to build a formal goddamn shelter, to satisfy fancy-pants and his _professional career protection._ Bollocks, all of it.

Finding Braginski seemed to be buzzing around the career's mind all day, too, as he kept asking questions Arthur could never know the answers to. "What's his family like? Did he work in those dirty coal mines, like you?"

Arthur would growl out some kind of answer like, "I don't know, why don't you ask him when we get there," Like he was expecting Ivan to be waiting at the top. This was a stupid idea.

It was around that evening that the two of them were the first ones to reach the summit. They'd surpassed the tree line long ago, and had gone up steeper slopes than they probably should have attempted.

The view from up there was stunning. It was a panorama of the entire arena—and apparently either a projection of the surrounding area or the arena just went on_ forever_. The forest was sprawling, the fields were wide, and the streams cascaded on the far side of the mountain, trickling into ones like the place he'd met Francis. The clouds felt so close here—it was almost like you could run your hand through one. Francis tried, once they reached the top, but in the end even he couldn't touch the clouds with that ego of his.

It was kind of hard to breathe up here, too. Arthur distinctly noticed that. He'd never been anywhere but district twelve, and he was so used to being underground that heights like this made him dizzy in the first place. He didn't really need the lack of oxygen to speed up his headache.

"Francis, I think… I think I've got to lie down for a while. God, I'm gonna be sick."

Francis only hummed. "Very well. I'm not really comfortable at this altitude, either. Lay down, and we'll think about what to do next."

"What is _your_ idea, frog?"

"Hmm. I think… I think that many others are going to come up here. It's like a giant version of king of the hill, right? Whoever stands here, on the top, is the king…"

"…and the other players try to knock him off." Arthur finished, and Francis hummed.

They talked about strategy. They would go down the mountain only a few hundred feet—so they would be harder to locate. Being up at the top like that was like laying yourself out as a free meal—bad idea in this situation. So they'd go down to the nearest overhang or a cave, or even just an area that was level enough.

"You can lie down, Arthur, and I'll find a place to sleep for tonight. It is starting to get late." Francis tilted his head, his chest expanding with the effort it took to take a full breath.

While Arthur was lying there, he thought a lot about Francis—what would he do when he found Ivan? Take him on himself? God, he was probably at the top of his game right now. Not even the careers could take him down for good, could they? His thoughts were brief, as he didn't really want to get into that too deep. He'd only worry himself far too much. He kind of wanted to get rid of Ivan as competition, yet there was that aspect—they'd both come from district twelve. Their home was the same. They likely knew their way around the same hob, they knew the same shopkeepers and shared family friends. He kind of wanted Ivan to survive.

Arthur sat there, thinking, taking in deep gulps of oxygen, as much as he could. When he returned, Francis had found what looked like a good spot—a sheet of rock jutting from the side of the mountain, shielded by an outcrop—the perfect location. Arthur sat up, standing to move down there.

Francis got increasingly antsy as the night drew on—until suddenly, a canon sounded in the distance. It echoed up the mountain, reverberating in the two tribute's spines, the terrible sound dancing in their minds.

Neither of them said anything—they just let the haunting sound hang in the air for a few minutes. Arthur noticed Francis' shoulders shaking.

It wasn't long before the projection appeared in the sky—what they were waiting for all along. The capitol theme came on, blaring aloud yet sounding better than it had last night—the top of the mountain was better to hear it.

It was very quick.

First—a boy from district five, with white hair, red eyes shining against the black sky. Gilbert Beilschmidt. Francis looked very upset at that, looking away from the sky for a second to wipe at his eye. Was he… was he crying? Arthur would normally have poked fun, but now… he decided it was fine for Bonnefoy to cry.

When Francis looked back at the sky, he stood, in awe. Arthur's jaw dropped, thoughts splintering through him, tears pricking at his eyes.

Ivan Braginski, district twelve.

What the hell are they supposed to do now?

* * *

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